


Take A Slice

by orphan_account



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, losing a bet but it doesn't go too bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 19:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17167601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Tom likes crossbows and makes bad choices, and Tord doesn't cheat. A dick is sucked.





	Take A Slice

**Author's Note:**

> eddsworld & it's characters dont belong to me, im just fucking around. everything is 100% consensual, tom is an idiot

“Let's call it a bet.”

Tord's voice comes from somewhere off to the side, ringing with all sorts of entitlement and devious manipulation. Tom scoffs, but doesn't take his attention off of where he's half-ass polishing an arrowhead, one of the many he impulsively purchased along with an old, vaguely vintage looking crossbow, finely sanded and polished wood yet visibly aged. It was cheap as hell, regardless. 

He brought it home with every intention of using it to put holes in whichever of Tord's belongings he could get his hands on, clothes, furniture, etc. Maybe even Tord himself, though he knew deep down it wasn't really an option. 

He never made it out of the living room.   
As though God himself had read his thoughts - and been thoroughly unamused - he was stopped in his tracks by the very person he planned on terrorizing.   
Tord seemed to fucking materialize out of nowhere in the time he had his back turned to shut and lock the front door, and he'd never admit that it startled him to turn around and find grey eyes and a sharp grin focused toward him. 

From there, Tord zeroed in on his loot, and unsurprisingly began to tease and belittle him for his choice, confident in his declaration that "guns were way cooler than some stupid chunk of wood". Tom admittedly grew defensive quick, and was easily looped into the argument.

It came to a bet.

“What kind of bet?”

“The kind that has an obvious winner. Me.” Tord claps his hands together, curling his ridiculously long fingers over his knuckles. He sounds smug, and it makes Tom want to knock him down a peg or two. “First to break completely through the wall wins. I use a handgun of my choice, you use your pathetic little toy.”

Tom's brows pinch with irritation at the use of the word "toy", and he surges toward the other man just to jab a finger into a chest, managing to look sufficiently threatening despite the height difference. Though Tord still seems visibly unaffected, and he languidly tucks his hands into his pocket to show his indifference. Tom fumes, but doesn't push further.

“What's the catch, you sneaky bastard? And what do I get when I win?”

Tord chuckles, the way he always does when he thinks he has the upper hand. It makes Tom's blood boil as much as it makes his stomach twist, but he ignores it.

“No catch here, dearest idiot,” He snarks, leaning forward and working himself into a slight loom.   
His face is close enough that Tom feels the need to back up, but he doesn't. “But when I win, you suck me off. On the off chance that you somehow manage to pull it off, I'll do the same. Fair?”

Tom's anger falters, replaced by the slightest bit of scandalized indignation. And, steadily growing arousal that he wishes would just fuck off. He tells himself it's the adrenaline, the pure rush of energy that he feels before any type of fight, but truthfully it's because of his hormonal caveman brain reacting to the promise of a bj.

Just when Tord seems to think Tom is going to back out due to his extended silence, Tom thrusts his hand out, and sneers. 

“Deal.”

Tord grins, mirthful and sneaky in a way that almost makes Tom nervous, and then he's got Tom's slightly smaller hand in a tight grip.

Tom watches somewhat wearily as Tord's other hand disappears under the hem of his sweatshirt, lingering there by his left hip before reappearing with a gun that Tom doesn't recognize. It's small, which probably explains why Tom hadn't been able to make out the bulk of it through Tord's jeans, and a shiny metallic silver. So, nothing special.

But Tords seems sure of his choice, grin never faltering as he gives the gun a tiny toss to display it's weight. Tom is unimpressed, and his eyes fall lidded with boredom as Tord croons.

“Heavy is good. Heavy is reliable.”

Tom snorts out loud at that, knows Tord stole that from a movie, seeing as he's sure he's seen the same movie at some point. Can't remember it, but that doesn't matter.  
He takes a careful, deliberate step back, and begins loading his new weapon. He uses the one he'd had out already for the sake of convenience, glad he'd taken the time to ask the guy how it worked. 

All the while Tord is watching him, just - humming. Tom wants to punch him in the throat.

Once he's loaded it, he aims it experimentally and admires the heft of it, the way it fits in his hands. He really does think it's neat.

Beside him, Tord snorts, effectively ruining his little moment. He's not surprised, he knows better than anyone how big of a dick the commie fucker is, but it still pisses him off.

“Any day now, princess.”

Tom grunts in response, already tired of Tord's shit and unwilling to goad him further.

“What's the target then?”

Tord hums in thought for a brief second, surveying the space around them. Eventually his eyes settle on a stretch of blank space, right by their front door. He gestures at it to confirm in the same movement that he aims the gun, an unspoken "I'm going first". Tom doesn't argue.

He somehow doesn't expect the loud, ringing bang, or the tickle of bits of flying drywall hitting his face, until he raises his arm to block it. When he lowers his arm, his ears are ringing a bit, and the first thing he sees is Tord's horrible, smug face.   
He frowns, and then he gets a nice view of their neighbor's mailbox through the gaping hole in their wall.

His mouth opens in shock for a split second, then he's tossing his crossbow to the side with a low frustrated sound not unlike a whine. Tord obnoxiously blows on the tip of the barrel, and tucks the offending object back into it's spot, before settling his hand over the back of Tom's shoulder. Tom shrugs it off roughly and his face twists into a glare that Tord can see right through. He knows Tom is recollecting the previous agreement and the conditions that come with it, and he chuckles gleefully at the way Tom nibbles on his lower lip before giving in.

“I hate you.”

“Hate me with my dick in your mouth.”

Tom curls his lip, but doesn't say anything else.   
He thinks back briefly to the other shit they've done, mostly hand stuff and maybe a bit of frotting. They reached a point where they began to take their anger out in a more sexual context, and in turn it seemed to mellow them out in the grand scheme. They still fight, argue, and for the most part, hate each other. But they also fuck sometimes, and it's a pretty solid set up.

So yeah, he's seen Tord's dick before, felt the weight of it in his hand, obviously isn't shy about dropping to his knees and fishing the thing out of Tord's jeans once they've locked themselves in Tord's room, and of course after he'd discarded his sweatshirt somewhere safe from cum stains.  
He's already halfway there, and Tom watches it stiffen further just from a few dry strokes. Tord is actually surprisingly sensitive, and it doesn't take a lot to get him going. 

Tord's face is only slightly pink, and his breathing has picked up just barely enough to be noticeable. He sneers down at Tom as he bats his hand away, which in turn leaves Tord's dick to succumb to gravity and - slap Tom right in the face. Tom flinches minutely as it lands up against his fortunately closed eye, hot against his eyelid, cheek, and the corner of his lips. 

Tord fucking laughs.

“Oops, my bad.”

Tom briefly entertains the thought of just biting it off, but is quickly aware that it would be more gross for him than anything, so he just digs his fingers into Tord's clothed thighs, and promptly maneuvers until the head of Tord's dick slides past his lips. It effectively shuts the cocky man up, and Tom has to fight the urge to grin at the sound of him choking on his own breath.

His upper lip safely shields the sensitive skin from his teeth as he sinks down further, working his tongue against the underside, giving one thick vein a bit of special attention. It's not his first rodeo, blowdeo if you will, and he wants to blow Tord's mind as much as he just wants to get it over with.

So he gives it his all, easily falling into a nice rhythm, using his tongue frequently. He takes in the sounds of Tord groaning above him, small whispers of Tom's name that he would deny later on, and they encourage him to move faster, take him in deeper, until he has to breathe through his nose. The second after he swallows, throat working around the tip of Tord's cock, there's hot cum filling his mouth and damn near choking him. He sputters as he pulls off, tongue coated in bitter sticky nasty.   
There's another couple spurts left, and they land over the bridge of his nose and under his eye, but he barely notices due to the fact that he's being forced to swallow cum just to breath. Fucking bastard asshole.

Before Tom has even fully recovered, Tord is pulling up his zipper and dropping down to his level. He yanks the furious brit forward by his shirt, and kisses him filthily, goes straight to licking into Tom's mouth with vigour.

Tom quite literally can't help but moan at the touch, and is suddenly very aware of how hard he is in his jeans.  
When Tord pulls back, Tom notices how red his face is, the glossy glaze over his eyes. It's really not too unattractive at all, and Tom hates it.

“I don't owe you anything,” Tord supplies even as he shoves his hand into Tom's pants, slicking him up easily with the help of precum, and he starts the fast pace that he knows Tom likes.

Tom goes limp at that, slumping heavily against Tord and moaning unevenly into his neck, awkwardly tucking an arm around the Norwegian's shoulders.  
His other hand curls into the fabric of Tord's sweatshirt just above his hip, grip tight enough to ground him. 

He comes embarrassingly fast, all over the inside of his boxers and Tord's hand, and he fights the whimper rising to his throat as he rides out the end of his orgasm, bucking his hips weakly. 

Tord, of course, is quick to return to his asshole ways and ruin the moment, smearing the cum along the bottom of Tom's shirt.  
Tom is far too spent to react beyond moving away to stand, grimacing at the uncomfortable wet feeling.

Tord manages to look smug still, after an orgasm like that. 

“Good job, Thomas.”

“I hate you so much.”

**Author's Note:**

> ok so hi i dont write fic but i think maybe this needed to happen. sorry


End file.
